


I Can Be a Hero

by RoarinxRory



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Confessions, F/M, I'm so sorry Jim baby you deserve better, Jealousy, M/M, Multi, T'hy'la, Unrequited Love, Vulcan Kisses, but Jim is still hurting, nothing against Uhura and Spock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 15:43:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7898479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoarinxRory/pseuds/RoarinxRory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Nothing gives Jim the right to be jealous, not the unwavering loyalty he devotes to his first officer, not the light that Spock brings to his life, not the desire to cast all aside except for the Vulcan. Yet, when he sees the way Nyota kisses him, Jim can't help himself.</i>
</p>
<p>Thus, Jim confesses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Can Be a Hero

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Magyar available: [Lehetek én hős..](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7961560) by [Szim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Szim/pseuds/Szim)



> This broke my heart to write, but I hope you enjoy either way. Thanks so much for reading <3 --Rory

Nothing gives Jim the right to be jealous, not the unwavering loyalty he devotes to his first officer, not the light that Spock brings to his life, not the desire to cast all aside except for the Vulcan. Yet, when he sees the way Nyota kisses him, Jim can't help himself.

Always, Jim is a whirlwind of energy, storming in a sort of beautiful chaos. Whether he is roaring thunder, crackling lightning, dancing fire, or raging flood, Captain James Tiberius Kirk is a force not to be reckoned with. A powerful heart and determined disposition he has, and despite the condescension he is sometimes subject to, he prides himself on his strong resolve, his trust in his emotions. It’s a characteristic that most everyone aboard the  _ Enterprise _ has grown accustomed to, a select number considering it familiar.

This is precisely the reason that concern flashes in Spock’s eyes as he watches Jim nod at him in acknowledgement without any type of expression, neither a trace of resentment nor regard about him. The captain seats himself coolly in his favored chair, central to the bridge, and speaks his orders smoothly. His charisma never faltering, he is the confident presence that makes the  _ Enterprise _ one of the most well-commanded ships in Starfleet, but even a passing ensign can see that the captain is in a state of internal turmoil.

Spock works dutifully at his station, but his mind wanders to Jim. He is painfully aware that his captain is troubled, an ear twitching at the sound of a heavier than usual sigh. Perhaps his captain might like a chess match in the recreation room that evening, Spock wonders. With tea, too, he adds as an afterthought. Deft fingers type a note to bring up an invitation later, with the greatest probability during lunch. Halfway through, though, hands find their way to Spock’s shoulders, tracing up his neck, massaging taut muscle. He knows his company before she announces herself; only two people have tendencies to enter his personal space as freely as they wish, and one of such is occupied with brooding mysteriously.

“Hey,” she greets.

Spock replies hushedly, “Hello, Nyota,” betraying that he, too, has been in deep contemplation. He slides his hands over hers, seeking a sense of security, as the void of space will consume a man lest he has an anchor to keep him grounded. This fleeting notion placates Spock’s worry of Jim. Maybe, just maybe, even his captain needs a chance to breathe in air, not something that space can offer so generously.

“He’ll be fine, you know,” Nyota attempts to recall her boyfriend’s attentions to her. “He’s just not having a great day, I’m sure.”

The Vulcan dislikes the dismissiveness that he associates with pushing Jim out of his thoughts. His grip on Nyota loosens and ultimately, as delicately as it can, ceases, his focus returning to a report. He pretends that he doesn’t hear the exasperation in the lieutenant as she tears herself away from him. Still, guilt washes over him. The issue remains in that it is due in part to Nyota but also to something else unexplored and unexplainable.

* * *

 

The mess hall that afternoon fails to remedy the tension of the crew. Scarcely anyone is in decent spirits, exhaustion and fatigue reigning over them whilst Jim’s morale is artificial, so much that the  _ Enterprise _ herself seems to be in a foul mood. Nibbling at his apple with disinterest, Jim draws into himself, his posture slumped and his gaze honed on one being. There's a voice, he can tell, but the meaning behind its words is not one that he can decipher. He really should listen with more respect, but it's an impossible feat, not with Spock’s lips moving as they are and not with the depth Jim sees in his eyes. Enamored irrevocably, illogically, and hopelessly, the suggestion for chess barely reaches him.

“Sorry,” a grimace surfaces. “What was that?”

Spock exhales, “Are you alright, Captain?” It's a question that has sat suspended in the atmosphere for hours already, dangling on a string from the ship’s ceiling. With all that Spock has experienced with Jim, all that they have triumphed side by side, his unease is crystal clear.

Jim fixates on Spock with aching in his heart, even as he mutters, “I’m fine.” He wishes so incredibly fervently for Spock to  _ understand _ , to grasp that Captain Kirk may be, but Jim is not at all, in fact, alright. There's a disaster brewing behind those two sapphires of his, and Jim yearns for salvation from himself. No calm in the center of this hurricane exists, nothing for Jim to cling to. Wordless as his admission is, he projects the emptiness of his soul as well as the insatiable craving for rescue. He, rarely submitting to vulnerable bearings, is the warrant of devastation to both parties.

For a brief moment, Spock can discern Jim’s voice in his mind pleading,  _ Please save me _ . From what, the Vulcan has no foreknowledge, but he is faithful to Jim through and through, and that is ample rationale to hold his hand out for Jim and lead him from his prison of unforgivable darkness. His eyes soften. He repeats the invitation for chess with a heightened degree of sensitivity, and he is pleased to receive affirmation. As Jim starts to take bites of his sandwich, a more comfortable silence passes between the two, and Jim even responds to some small talk.

With hope that Spock may be able to further investigate his captain’s perturbed state, he welcomes Nyota into the seat beside him. She’s lovely in her manner. She carries herself with dignity, and she is attractive, both physically and intellectually. Anyone with eyes and ears can distinguish the allure of this woman, the appeal of her. Where many may beam at the sight of her, Jim pulls his mouth into a tight smile. His engagement in conversation plummets, and suddenly, it is as if only a phantom of the captain remains.

Nyota is conscious about Spock’s reluctance to public displays of affection, yet she brushes her fingers subtly over the back of his hand, thrilled with the green in his cheeks that the gesture yields. The couple is oblivious to the fact that as Spock’s color increases, another’s drains, and when they look up again, Jim has vanished, no longer seated across from them, no longer even in the cafeteria. The fingertips now tickling his palm are undeserving of Spock’s consideration, dull alarm nagging at him as he endeavors to figure what triggered Jim’s speedy departure. He more coarsely than intended withdraws from Nyota. Contorting her fair features, her perplexion is prominent. Something of her pride is injured as the sweet smile she adorned falls.

* * *

 

In another part of the ship, Jim is pacing restlessly. His boots are heavy on the floor of a viewing deck and clunk appropriately in accordance with the thumping in his chest, the throbbing in his head. Who is he to be upset when Uhura wants to Vulcan kiss her boyfriend? Who is he to bite back a possessive growl when she curls into Spock’s side like she was molded for it? Jim knows he has no claim on Spock whatsoever. He is wholly aware that Spock is his dear friend, one who would risk life and limb to ensure his captain’s safety, but Jim is averse to admit that the boundaries of their relationship are defined there. They are friends, the greatest of comrades and sometimes the worst of enemies, but still friends and only friends. The concept rips Jim apart.

He should sit and have a drink with Bones, really, but the latter has a date with a certain Carol Marcus, meaning that the pair is lounging together in Bones’ office. Jim is stuck between a rock and a hard place, but even he, notorious for being headstrong, reckless, and, depending on who is asked, annoying, is courteous enough to give them privacy. Alone with his own devices, Jim tires of his trudging back and forth, a soreness sprouting from his heels, snaking up his calves, and wrapping around his knees, and leans on the railing near the deck’s window. It’s a lovely evening in space, anyways, and with his hectic lifestyle, it’s easy to forget to stop and marvel at the magnificent cosmos among him. He is reminded of how minute he is, how insignificant. Jim is a man on a ship surrounded by an unimaginable vastness, quite literally an expanse ad infinitum et ultra.

A melancholy air pervades the room as he ponders. His general observations evolve into ideas and from there bloom into masterpieces of theorization, countless intricacies weaving together in a web of wonder. Before his eyes, swirling galaxies spin, within which stars shine spectacularly. Colors and lights existing in daydreams burst in front of him, seeming so close that Jim can extend his fingers and touch them. How can something so exquisite also be so dangerous? How can such a welcoming scene also be so desolate? How can Jim possibly explore enough space to make a dent, to make a difference in how much is known about the universe? There are an insurmountable number of questions to be answered, and it seems as though every one explanation he comes across begets ten more inquiries.

The captain’s questions begin to centralize on himself. He admits with an incredulous chuckle that he did not come to the observation deck to simply reflect on the nuances of space.  _ When are you going to be a man and confront him about it? What are you going to do when he turns you down? Why are you even holding onto that sorry excuse for a glimmer of hope that he’ll reciprocate the way you feel? Think, for just one second, about what this will do to your career. How do you expect to be professional after this? _ Jim combats the insecurity churning in his gut and claws for his mental fortitude, but there is less than sufficient energy in him. His head hangs, and his hands tremble, and Jim is perilously on the edge of resignation. He may seal his lips and hold his peace forevermore, and he may deal with the black hole in him by drinking himself dumb and bedding anything moving and willing. He may choose this less confrontational path, but Jim knows that he’ll be a traitor to himself if he does, condemned to suffer in solitude. So, Jim will express himself through whatever necessary means, and he will find victory in that, even if it results in waking up every morning with nothing but cold sheets beside him.

His head swimming, Jim barely recognizes that he has been standing in the same place from when he fled lunch to when his communicator beeps. There is still a buzz of detachment in him, and he ignores the growling in his stomach from skipping dinner, but he musters up the effort to tell Spock that he’ll be in the rec room soon, apologizing in a murmur for keeping the Vulcan waiting. It’s not terribly unlike him to be late, but an hour past their discussed meeting time is unreasonable and rude. He winces at his carelessness, departing from the deck. The walk feels too long to Jim, every polite wave at his crew members forced, each step taking him nowhere. He suddenly doesn’t know what to do with his arms, as they’re awkward swinging at his side and even worse crossed over his chest. This, Jim fears, may end up being the least enjoyable session he’s ever had with Spock, the outcome reliant on Jim’s own actions, which are proving to be erratic and confused.

By the time Jim enters the rec room, Spock has already reheated their tea thrice. Pink stains Jim’s cheeks in a flush of embarrassment as he fixes his hair, blond disheveled from the incessant motion of combing through it with his hands over the course of his psychological break on the viewing deck. Spock is as perfectly proper as ever with a bit of a casual twist in his wardrobe, sporting Starfleet issued loungewear. Jim is pleasantly surprised.  _ It’s only Spock _ , he reassures himself despite his better judgment and his somewhat settling nerves.  _ There is nothing to be afraid of. When it comes down to it, you will still be his captain, and he will still be your first officer.  _ At least that much Jim can say of his entitlement to Spock. Reclining in the couch across from Spock, he discovers that the tightness in his abdomen and back uncoils. Nothing can be done about the periodic shifting of his hands and bouncing of his leg, his fretfulness demanding to manifest in some form, but Jim thinks he can unwind to a certain degree in this place, as his first officer planned.

Placidity in his appearance, Spock receives Jim as warmly as a Vulcan can, going as far as to tilt the ends of his mouth up in a faint smile. He looks about to speak, but as does Jim, and an eloquent exchange of stutters and stammers ensues between them. A snort, though dampened in spirit, bubbles in Jim, and he feels lofty, airy, liberated. Fondly, he correlates the sensation to Spock’s company. Neither can piece together more than three or four words, their voices consistently overlapping and a lack of eye contact making visual cues a nonfactor. This babbling continues until Spock pushes a pawn forward with his forefinger, a quiet relieving them. Concentration on the game is neither Jim nor Spock’s priority, Spock still fussing over Jim’s welfare and Jim wracking his brain to effectively articulate his feelings. Jim nudges one of his own pieces a few spaces and holds his breath at the electricity that tingles from a brief, accidental touch to Spock’s skin.

His gaze flickers upward to meet Spock’s to see if the rush is mutual, but Jim can detect no evidence of it. He is discouraged by the unawareness of his first officer and slides the wrong pawn in his distraction. Spock usually lectures him on his unpredictable playing style, but Jim is simply underperforming this time around. The circumstances are special, after all, but it's no excuse to be acting so nonchalantly, and as time wears on, as Jim formulates his confession, his aloofness morphs into panic. His mouth is dry in spite of the tea he is spooning down his throat, and his head feels like it’s splitting open, and his hands are beginning to shake so violently that he knocks over a knight, and Jim is so, so very distressed. Jumbled apologies spill from his lips, only decreasing in coherency as his anxiety swells. Spock is burning holes in him with his eyes, Jim can tell, and though they are based in genuine concern, Jim squirms. His fingers move in spasms while he tries his best to keep up with the chess match, but it’s not something that he can do in his situation. He wants to escape. That has never been a wish of Jim’s, to be separated from Spock, but he wants to run. Of course, there is nowhere that Jim can go that Spock will not follow.

“Captain…?” Spock asks with hesitation. Jim is in his shell, and the last thing Spock wants to do is yank him out of his safe place, especially because Jim’s eyes have been fluttering mindlessly as he stares into nowhere. He rests his hand over Jim’s in hopes to elicit a reaction, and he does, but it’s a jittery flinch, and Jim snatches his own hand away without a second thought. More apologies flood the increasingly fragile air of the room.  _ This is a bad idea _ , Jim laments to himself.  _ I’m freaking out. What do I do? He’s looking at me. Please, Spock, don’t look at me. I’m a mess. Oh, God, did I offend him by pushing him away? No, I don’t want that. I don’t want this. I don’t want any of this.  _ His brow creases as he opens and closes his mouth without a word leaving it. He feels ridiculous and embarrassed and exposed, and he isn’t surprised at the lack of understanding on Spock’s facial expression. He’s not making sense, not acting logically, and that, of all things, is not comprehensible to Spock.

“I’m sorry,” he reiterates like a broken record.

“Captain, you have apologized approximately eight times in the past fourteen point six minutes.”

He throws his head into his hands as he shouts, “Spock! Please, just cut the ‘Captain’ bullshit! I-I… I need… need to go.”

Jim stands abruptly and slams his cup down on the table. The chess board rattles as the entire thing wobbles. His embarrassment shifts to mortification as the game topples to the side, crashing gracelessly to the floor.  _ Now, look what you’ve done, Jim! _ the abusive voice in his brain scolds with the utmost abrasiveness. Jim reels backward until the backs of his knees touch the couch cushion. He is the epitome of discomposure, and he is ashamed to be showing Spock this part of him, but he is too frazzled to care or do anything about it. He pants heavily as he attempts to salvage his dignity, failing miserably as Spock watches him scramble. A choking whimper rising in his throat, Jim holds resemblance to a cornered animal in his wild eyes. He stumbles, swaying and unsteady, away from the couch and table, still somehow managing to jab his hip on the table’s corner.

“Damn it!” he curses. It's like every move he makes is another shovel of dirt in digging his grave.

His brain is shrieking at him to just hurry and leave, to bolt out of the rec room and to not look back, but he's an oxymoron of a man, frozen and spastic at once. He hasn't felt so lost in a long while. In his fit of hysteria, Jim clenches his fists, screws his eyes shut, and wills his heart rate to lower.  _ Relax _ , he forces himself to think.  _ Simmer down, and then just walk away. _ Blood surges to his face, reddening in humility and frustration. Why can't he do it? Why is this so goddamned difficult? He already failed at confessing, and for once, Jim needs to abandon ship. Why can't he just--

“Jim.” Spock’s voice cuts through his captain’s waves of confusion with confidence and calm. “Please, you are not well. I advise against further social engagement and recommend that you retire for the evening.”

“Spock…” Jim’s voice is in stark contrast to Spock’s, breaking and hoarse. “Forgive m--”

“There is nothing to forgive. If you require assistance, I will aid you in returning to your quarters.”

He rises from his seat and starts toward Jim, stopping just short of the latter’s personal space. Disregarding the hitch in his captain’s breath, he holds a gaze with Jim, gratitude pouring from those blue eyes of his.  _ This _ is why Jim’s heart bleeds, why all of Uhura’s wandering fingers twist the blade in his chest cruelly. Spock reluctantly breaks the eye contact and bends to gather the scattered components of the abandoned chess board as Jim shuffles to avoid crushing any pieces under his boots. He feels bad for making Spock clean up alone, but there is immense distrust in his dexterity at the moment, and a crew member who recently entered the rec room gladly offers to put away the game herself, noting Spock’s wariness of a thoroughly emotionally exhausted Jim. Spock tips his head in thanks at the crew member before turning to Jim and nonverbally asking permission to help him walk. The captain is statuesque, replying with a curt, stiff jerk of his head in acceptance.

He doesn't protest when Spock lifts his arm around his shoulders or when Spock’s hand finds Jim’s waist, taking most of his weight onto himself. He doesn't protest when Spock begins to take slow, careful steps through the door and down the hall. He doesn't protest when Spock readjusts his grip on him to ensure that he doesn't fall under the shakiness of his knees, the fragility of his stance; Spock is holding Jim like he, if mishandled or left unattended, will shatter. Jim, however, assumes incorrectly that the tentativeness originates from Spock’s disgust for his blatant show of emotion and therefore a wish to not be in such close proximity to his captain. His sight is lowered, glued to the floor and with firm intent to remain in this manner. Jim radiates anguish.

“I really am sorry,” he whispers faintly.  _ Am I sorry for Spock, or am I sorry for me? _ courses through his conscience. There is strong possibility of both.

He can't feel Spock at his side anymore, so he assumes that they've almost arrived to their destination. Rigidly, mechanically, he follows Spock’s lead to the keypad, not bothering to watch him type in the codes. Then, Spock’s presence is with him again, cradling the shivering child in Jim. It's natural, visceral, innate, instinctual, and Jim curls into the figurative embrace, its security engulfing and placating the tremors in his core. Why is it that Jim is so captivated by and so terrified of the same being? This luminous, shimmering beacon of safety, this unwavering guarantee of protection, this silly, green-blooded, pointy-eared, smartass Vulcan is Spock, and for him, Jim’s heart harbors limitless affection.

_ Ah _ , Jim thinks,  _ I’m not afraid of Spock, and I'm not afraid of Uhura or their relationship or even of my feelings. _ The clouds in his head dissipate as Spock helps him to the edge of his bed.  _ I'm not afraid of being pushed away or of being welcomed. _ Spock releases Jim and shifts to move away.  _ I’m not afraid of heartbreak or floating aimlessly in an abysmal oblivion, the limbo between friendship and more.  _ Spock’s eyes train on Jim, assessing and evaluating, judging whether to trust Jim’s words or his actions, whether it is the  _ “ _ I’m fine” or the  _ Please help me _ that he's going to heed.

Jim inhales sharply, forcing himself to recollect the bravery, the courage that he’s gathered over the years of commanding the  _ Enterprise _ . He draws together, gathers, compiles his pain from the adversaries Nero, the time-scrambled Romulan, Khan Noonien Singh, the vengeance-hungry superhuman, Krall, the brutal, mutated warlord bent on decimating Starfleet, and countless other challenges. It's like a scrapbook or a film. Jim can see all of his foes in front of him, threatening him, his crew, his or another planet, Starfleet. One by one, they hiss, spit venom, lash out, but only that. After each, he envisions his crew, his friends, his family shredding the ghosts of his past. These obstacles are nothing to him. Jim is  _ brave _ , can overcome anything, rule the universe if he likes. He's fire and fury personified, blazing brilliantly with a ferocity in his soul that he worried he lost. Vividly, he defeats each villain again and recalls that he does not do it alone. Sulu, Chekov, Bones, Carol, Scotty, Uhura, even Jaylah, all stand behind him, supporting him as their leader, encouraging words urging him on, keeping him going.

But one, an arm’s reach away, is Spock, at Jim’s right hand. He's the strength Jim needs when he has none left, his shield and sword. He’s the reminder Jim needs that Captain James Tiberius Kirk, one of Starfleet’s finest, intergalactic hero, revered for his valor and accomplishment, is the same as Jim, that one kid from Iowa. The thought of Spock brings an invisible grin to Jim’s mind, reverberating, resounding wonderfully in him, one that's been evading him for some time.

He admits freely, finally,  _ I’m afraid of him never knowing. _

Jim brims with an untamable joy as his hand shoots out and his fingers curl around Spock’s wrist to halt his departure. “Before you go,” he says, “let me apologize one last time. Please, Spock.”

Puzzled but compliant, the commander stops. The room is silent, not particularly dreadfully, but Spock can almost hear a drumming in his lower right torso, his hummingbird of a heart. Not a moment later, Jim whirls him around, swallows a sob, and smiles through the tears pricking at his oceans of eyes, “I’m sorry.”

His lips are instantly on Spock’s in a deep, meaningful, painfully beautiful kiss, awaited by Jim for so long that it hurts. He trails the fingertips of one hand down Spock’s jaw as he leans upward, conveying all of his previously hidden… love. That's what that is. Yes, love sounds right. He moves his lips slowly, logically. Spock would arch a ridiculously angled eyebrow if he was aware of the way Jim is calculating each of his motions. His tongue swipes at Spock’s bottom lip, and Jim is enthralled with the consequent entrance he is granted into Spock’s mouth. His mind and body sing harmoniously against Spock, who has relaxed into Jim’s touch, and give to Spock everything Jim has. The index and middle fingers of his left hand slide up Spock’s free palm, the other pulling Jim closer by the hip. At last, Jim feels that impossibly fast heartbeat of Spock’s skip as he aligns their fingers, drags them together, intertwines them. He's not even Vulcan, and Jim finds the action intensely gratifying, so he can hardly comprehend Spock’s exhilaration.

He reverses into the edge of his bed and falls onto it, tugging Spock down with him. With the hand he doesn't use to caress Spock’s, Jim explores everywhere he can, taking advantage fully of this chance he’ll never have again, his fingers playing with the hem of Spock’s science uniform, toying at the toned muscle under that not-blue-enough shirt. Blissfully, he relishes the bruises that Spock sucks on his neck and collarbones, tossing his head back, laughing into the air, relinquishing his fidgeting to thread his fingers in that absurd bowl cut. Jim has never been happier than this, he assures himself, not when he nailed, not cheated, no matter what Spock says, the Kobayashi Maru simulation, not when he blew the living daylights out of Nero and the  _ Narada _ , not even when Pike gave him his darling baby the  _ Enterprise _ .

He coaxes Spock up to meet his lips again, missing his taste. Ten, fifteen, twenty kisses Jim presses, losing count, but there will always be too much space between Spock and Jim, first officer and captain. He sighs as he nudges Spock’s forehead with his own, his breath tickling the Vulcan’s. All good things must come to an end, right? Jim fails to convince himself of the fact. His lip wobbles as he hiccups, sorrowful and irrationally joyful tears streaking down his cheeks. He wraps his arms behind Spock’s neck and wants to hold him there forever, like none of the stars in the sky compare to his dazzling first officer.

A final kiss, long and desperate and hopeless, seals Jim and Spock’s fates, a broken sound escaping Jim’s throat. Jim memorizes it, its softness, fluidity, marvelousness, magic. Only when his lungs burn does he set Spock free, and even then, Spock lingers. So pleased and so, so disappointed, Jim croaks, “Thank you… Spock, thank you.” His eyes are shockingly bright as he cries.

“You are incorrigible, Jim,” Spock breathes against his captain’s lips, his dark eyes slipped shut to avoid the grief in Jim’s blue. He can't bear to see Jim so sad, regretting when Jim reluctantly withdraws his hand from the Vulcan kiss. Spock brushes away Jim’s tears with his thumbs, this time apologizing himself and not vice versa. He murmurs over and over, “ _ Ni’droi’ik nar-tor, ashayam. Ni’droi’ik nar-tor. _ ”

The “I’m sorry” repeats as his fingertips trace the curves of Jim’s sides, up his arms, over his face, that charming face, as he tears himself away from who might have been his  _ t’hy’la _ and surely is in at least one other life, as he smiles somberly  at his fantastic captain, too good for the universe, as he walks away through their joint bathroom. “ _ Ni’droi’ik nar-tor _ ,” he whispers shakily, his back knocking against the door as it closes. Spock slides down to the floor as his ear flicks in response to truly heart wrenching sniffling on the door’s opposite side. His knees curled to his chest, Spock buries his face in his arms.

* * *

 

Spock’s counterpart in his quarters, staring at the ceiling, Jim rewinds through the events of the evening, not sure whether to keep crying or to crack a smile. A wave of trembling hits him square in the chest as he wishes he could see the stars in these moments to distract him, to whisk him away from his wet pillow and cold sheets, from his empty room and emptier heart.  _ Funny _ , Jim muses, his voice too broken to speak.  _ If being heartbroken is being brave, I’m doomed to go down in the history books. _ Then, Jim snorts a pitiful little thing, wipes his nose with the back of his sleeve, and kicks his boots off.

_ Sick. Tell Spock to cover my shift tomorrow. _

Bones will know it's a lie since Jim never calls in sick so easily, let alone over a message on his PADD, but the captain can't care less. He abandons the thing carelessly onto the floor, flipping onto his side. The area around his eyes puffy, the deep breaths he’s attempting faltering, Jim bites down on his lip hard enough to draw blood. The mattress squeaks as he twists his body into a tight ball, tense, quivering with emotion. He relents to his sobs, his eyes spilling over, no reason to resist this waterfall.

_ Proud, Dad? Your son is a hero. Heart of a lion and eye of the tiger, he’s got. Hell, he can even kiss the Vulcan he loves and watch him go be with someone else. Ain't that brave, Dad? _

And as Jim wills his headache away, begs the rumbling earthquake in his chest and the flood rising in his eyes to subside, he throws his forearm over his face and grimaces. Jim’s chapped, dry lips part in a rush of love and agony, and then he loses consciousness.

“Fuck…”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for makin' it to the end! I know :( Sad endings are never fun. I'll come out with a fluffy fic soon. Thanks, as always, to marleneonmyshoulder, the beta babe.  
> Lemme give you those Vulcan translations:  
>  _Ni'droi'ik nar-tor_ \- "I'm sorry" (Literally, "I ask forgiveness")  
>  _Ashayam_ \- "Beloved"  
>  _T'hy'la_ \- Haha do I need to explain this one? --Rory


End file.
